


Just Another Cave Story

by FHC_Lynn



Series: Betting Book Tales [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Humor, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, robot gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 12:28:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FHC_Lynn/pseuds/FHC_Lynn
Summary: Never mind the circle-jerk of blame, whatdoesone do trapped in a cave-in with a seeker?





	Just Another Cave Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarielgrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarielgrace/gifts).



> May Day prompt from Sarielgrace: _Prowl/Starscream (the SICs do the dirty, hehehe)_. Look, it’s an oldie but a goldie. And I’ve never written one. Nyah?

At the time, Wheeljack insisted the twins deserved at least half of the blame for knocking folks around. The twins felt it was Ironhide’s fault for ordering the whole strike. Ironhide claimed that Jazz had set Wheeljack’s explosives off too soon. Jazz was too busy holding his insides together and cackling like a lunatic to defend himself. Pain or delirious humor, no one could say. Ratchet knocked him into medical stasis before he could explain why he was wetting himself with leaking fluids laughing so hard.

But whenever Smokescreen got into his cups, he explained the end of the longest standing bet he had ever kept in his book this way:

With Megatron taken out by that last detonation, everyone had expected Starscream to shrill something or other about Megatron falling flat on his face and Starscream taking over. Except Starscream didn’t. Soundwave called a retreat with his twitching leader hanging over his shoulders, and it seemed like all the Decepticons flew away in disorganized clumps into the empty dark sky of their world.

Old Red Alert, however, kept glancing back in their direction as the rest of them dug through the rubble, and something nagged at Smokescreen’s processor, too. But Prowl’s (former) command hub had been taken out in the blast. Fortunately, they could still ping him. He was alive under there. The hub’s fortifications had protected him. But he had been all too close to the blast center, and Blaster couldn’t get anything but that ping.

Ratchet hurried himself reattaching Jazz’s innards where they belonged and cussed up a storm in preparation to rinse and repeat on Prowl.

Finally, Ironhide snapped at Red Alert about keeping his face on the task. Red Alert protested that he _was_ keeping his optics on his job. Optimus put his hands between them, shoved, and demanded an explanation.

Red Alert pointed in the direction the Decepticons had flown. “I only counted eight seekers.”

Smokescreen froze, like everyone else, and rolled his memory back. Yep, he only counted eight pairs of wings himself. Notably, it was the _white_ set missing from the picture. Also like everyone else, he looked at Wheeljack because he had made that class of charge to cover their _own_ escapes. Wheeljack pointed at the twins because they had been riding Starscream’s fuselage to the ground. They pointed at Ironhide because he had told them to stop Starscream’s strafing run. Ironhide pointed Jazz because that charge wasn’t to have gone off until last-mech-standing-Prowl had been dragged away. And Jazz, of course, still had his insides on his outside.

Now Ratchet’s cussing burned _Prime’s_ audials off, and Prime could shock ol’ bearing-buster Ironhide.

Everyone dug faster, and Blaster kept trying to bring Prowl up on the radio. Only the pings came back still. Time ticked away. Rubble shifted under them as they dug deeper and deeper down. They might just crush Prowl trying to rescue him. With Jazz’s insides now firmly re-attached, Ratchet had nothing to distract him. He stopped cussing. His silent panic spread to everyone else.

Smokescreen often paused here to answer the inevitable stupid question from whichever newbie about waking Jazz up to explain his deranged laughter. No one _smart_ brought a special operative out of medical stasis. A smart mech put them in an isolation ward and let their busted cogs turn up to speed all alone. It limited friendly fire casualties.

When they finally, finally dug to Prowl’s location, disaster struck. Bluestreak’s left pede punctured the safe bubble that had been the command hub, and he promptly fell to the ground. The hole widened sharply, and Bluestreak plunged into the darkness via the now gaping hole. Sadly, as soon as he got his pedes back under him, he responded by turning on his secondary biolights to full brightness.

Prowl was fine. More than _fine_. So was Starscream. In fact, they were both doing a _spectacular_ job of blowing each other’s circuits.

When the twins had been riding his chassis down, per Ironhide’s orders, they had seen Jazz with Wheeljack’s charge all set to go. Their jumping off Starscream had sent him spinning right through the blast wave.

Here Smokescreen would relate what Jazz had seen as Starscream crashed through the fire to Prowl’s window: the much-vaunted Decepticon Air Commander, limbs flung out wildly, slamming directly into the seated Prowl and wrapping around him like molten slag.

In fact, they were still in the shattered remains of the chair when Bluestreak shed light on their situation. The blast had given them a bubble, sure, but it had also pinned Starscream’s wings to the desks Prowl sat between. And that had Prowl pinned beneath Starscream.

It didn’t take them long to come off in fine style. In the brilliant glow of Bluestreak’s bumper lights, Starscream fragged himself on Prowl’s spike like there was no tomorrow. Prowl had his hands _everywhere_ , wringing gasps and whimpers from the seeker. Starscream could only clench his claws on Prowl’s bumper, optics flickering in pleasure. Honestly, Smokescreen would say, the mingled illumination of rampant lightning scrawling over their frames as one followed the other into overload was beautiful.

Starscream, however, was the one knocked offline. He dangled from his pinned wings, joints audibly creaking. Fans rattling with the effort to cool him in the close quarters, Prowl looked at his would-be rescuers past the fragged-strutless frame of the Starscream, and Smokescreen swore he had said, “You took a very long time. Starscream cannot seem to maintain consciousness for more than a half hour at a time. This is growing rather tedious.”

If Kup happened to be around, he would invariably cut in, “I told you not to open a book on Prowl’s virginity.”

And Smokescreen would jab him in the side. “Then you couldn’t have bet on the long odds!”


End file.
